


Destruction

by IiIia



Series: it’s ashes [1]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Could be ships if u look really hard, Eventual Mikomisa, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, So i’ll probably do a continuation with that, This was originally going to be Mikoto/yata but then I got Really into back story, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 00:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15207173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IiIia/pseuds/IiIia
Summary: He fought because he could, because it was either fight or that aching emptiness. He knew he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Because even before he held fire in his hand he was uncontrollable— he was bruised knuckles, blood caked under fingernails and red stained school uniforms. He walked with violence and knew rage intimately.





	Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a really long time since I watched this anime, so my backstory might be really off, so sorry about that

 

 

He is destruction.

 

 

 

 

In his earliest memories red was a gentle color. It was the color of his favorite transformers shirt—its age had made it soft—the way it stretched over his shoulder blades (almost too tight) was comforting. On a cold night, red was the last layer of embers on the fireplace that lazily signaled bedtime. He used a bright red crayon to outline hearts on a receipt he saw peeking out of his mother’s coat pocket. He left the receipt on her bed and later that day when she smiled at him her shoulders were less drawn, the lines of her face not as tight.

 

Red was his mother’s hair— the same dark crimson as his own. He remembered her holding him during a thunderstorm. She tucked her chin against his head, her hair a curtain around them. In her arms, surrounded by deep crimson he was loved, he was safe.

 

But, it was not long before he learned that red was also danger. He remembered standing in the apartment he grew up in, remembered the blood, how it dripped from the broken bottle in the man’s hand and onto the floor. The way red fell from his mother’s forehead, at first it looked innocent like it was just a stray hair, that if he moved forward he could put it back in place. Time slowed as he watched his mother fall to the floor and his legs shook when he tried to step towards her.

 

And then the room was fast and noisy as people dressed in blue stormed through the front door. He was dragged from the apartment and watched as the man was tackled to the floor.

 

He knew red was violence as he hit the man carrying him, yelled to be put down. He reached for his mother, saw her for the last time— her hair and blood a crimson halo. He knew red was rage when all he could see was his mother’s blood.

 

He was taken to Scepter 4, was there long enough that he learned to despise the member’s pitying looks and he overheard their hushed conversations about him. He learned that the man with the bloody bottle was a Strain (he had heard the fearful whispers about Strains before), and that the man died trying to escape Scepter 4.

 

He learned the man was his father. His mouth tasted metallic, like iron at the thought, his blood dripped as his teeth sunk angrily into his lip. That man would _never_ be anything than more than a murderer.

 

Eventually, a middle aged couple introduced to him as his Aunt and Uncle picked him up from Scepter 4. They handed him black formal clothes and went directly to his mother’s funeral. He kept his gaze blank at the service, but as he looked at the framed photograph of his mother his hands shook in clenched fists. His fingernails dug sharply into the flesh of his palms. 

 

Once they were in his new room at his Aunt and Uncle’s house they handed him a small cardboard box and then nodded almost curtly before they left the room. He stared at the door for a moment —making sure he was alone— before he ripped the tape off the cardboard. Inside was a silver jewelry box about the size of his hand. He recognized the box, remembered the way it sat in the sun on his mother’s bathroom counter— always placed right next to her brush. He ran his fingers along the cool silver before he reached the clasp and gentle pried the box open. Inside was a silver star shaped charm. He pressed his fingers against the raised holes on the back where his mother would put hair pins through so she could wear it in her hair. 

 

He reached for his duffle bag, unzipped it for the first time since a man in blue had handed it to him as he left Scepter 4. Everything was neatly folded, he remembered pitying stares and added extra force as he dug through the bag— nothing should be clean now— not when everything was stained a messy, dripping red. He pulled out his hoodie, collapsed back on the bed and left the clothes an unorganized mess on the ground. He pulled the string out of the hood of his jacket, brought the pendant up to his eyesight and threaded the string through the holes and tied a knot half way up. He put the string around his neck, clutched the pendant in his hand, pushed it against his heart and for the first time since his mother’s death he let his eyes sting.

 

 He felt warm tears run along the curve of his cheeks and a sob pushed past his trembling lips. He clenched the pendant harder, its edges dug into the soft skin of his hand. He let out another sob and he brought his head down until his forehead touched his knees. He held the pendant against his aching chest as if he could push the pain away. The silver box fell to the ground with a clatter and the soft velvet bedding of the box slipped out. The box had fallen just to the right of his foot and he rubbed his eyes so he could see. A small piece of paper laid innocently next to the box. He leaned forward and it was a receipt with red crayon hearts drawn on.

 

 

********************

 

 

He is destruction.

 

 

 

 

He wasn’t surprised when five years later— just after he turned thirteen— that his Aunt and Uncle send him to a boarding school in the city far from their own suburban home. They weren’t the type of people that were meant to take care of children— having always been overly self-concerned, mildly unhappy in their own lives and generally not pleased with the added responsibility.

 

 He was glad to go. They had never outwardly mistreated him, but a year before he was sent to boarding school he overheard his Aunt talking to a friend about his fighting. He didn’t mind them talking about him and he moved to walk upstairs, but he paused when his Aunt’s voice became more harsh. She said that he was from a sister she hadn’t spoken to in years, a sister that had abandoned the family, was a disgrace. A sister that got what she deserved in the end. The other woman clucked approvingly.

 

His chest was tight with fire. His whole body was shaking with rage as he clenched his fists and slammed it into the wall. He walked out the front door clutching his pendant in bleeding knuckles. He slept outside for two days before the fire in his chest began to cool and he went back to his Aunt and Uncle’s house.

 

He went to the city and not much changed, his Aunt and Uncle forwarded the money they received to take care of him and he lived in a small one room apartment. Not much changed, but it was like the ashes he’d walked on since he saw that crimson halo got hotter. He fought almost everyday. He fought because he could, because it was either fight or that aching emptiness. He knew he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Because even before he held fire in his hand he was uncontrollable— he was bruised knuckles, blood caked under fingernails and red stained school uniforms. He walked with violence and knew rage intimately. 

 

For months it was just him and the ashes. Until one of the guys he fought wouldn’t quit after he’d been defeated. The guy kept coming back, asking him for fights, following him around. They kept fighting until one day the guy reached forward with a handshake instead of a fist.

 

“I’m Izumo Kusanagi.”

 

He grunted at this Izumo guy. He pushed his chin up and glared at the offered hand.

 

The guy dropped his hand, “Ah, shit, don’t be like that. We’ve fought enough.” The guy paused for a moment and to the side before a small mischievous smile played across his lips. “You ever smoke before?”

 

The guy must have seen his interest, because he sat on a nearby park bench and took out two cigarettes, put one in his own mouth before offering the other. He took the cigarette, leaned down so the guy could light it, he took a breathe and coughed as he exhaled the smoke. The guy laughed until a glared silenced him.

 

“So you going to tell me your name?” Izumo asked around his exhale.

 

He glared for a minute, “Mikoto Suoh.”

 

Their fistfights turned into smoke breaks, eating meals together and fighting as a team. When Izumo got the bar he went almost every day. Not much later he met Tatara.

 

 The first time he really looked at Tatara he was in a hospital bed. He didn’t understand Tatara at first and mostly thought he was weak. But with Tatara he quickly realized there are more than one way to be strong. 

 

And of course it was in the middle of a fight not even half a year later when he realized he had people again, people he cared about and wanted to protect. They were wildly outnumbered and Izumo was getting punched in the face repeatedly, Tatara was crouched on the ground clutching at his ribs. Izumo’s legs buckled and he fell back, blood drip onto the ground in front of Tatara.

 

He felt the ashes that had cooled for almost a year blaze hotter than ever before. The early spring air was filled with a stifling heat. And it felt like fire had replaced all of his blood. Fire ran through his veins. And there was only pain—excruciating, all encompassing pain— and then for a moment there was nothing—just silence and dark— until, suddenly all he could see was red.

 

He had known red his entire life. He remembered rage and blood and pain. It was flaking red blisters on his knuckles. It was the look in his opponent’s eyes when they thought they were about to win. It was finally feeling something other than the emptiness when he rammed his knuckles into his opponent’s jaw. It was too hot showers searing into his shoulders. It was the sneer in his Aunt’s voice when she talked about her dead sister. 

 

It was a broken bottle. It was a puddle of blood and hair.

 

And then he was just a child again quivering in the corner as a single drop of blood fell from his mother’s forehead. The red that could have _Should have_ been a strand of hair. The drop rolled down the side of her nose and stopped at the ridge of her upper lip before falling onto her blouse. Her lips curved into a smile, her bottom lip trembled as she looked over at him, but the small dimple on her right cheek was still indented. The skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled— her laugh lines became more prominent. Her eyes watered slightly, but they were loving. 

 

She opened her mouth and let out a small pained gasp her eyes briefly flickering down, she looked at him again and said the words he had missed all these years. 

 

 

_Mikoto, you are loved._

 

 

And he knew red. Remembered when he used to fall asleep with his mother’s hair pinched between his thumb and forefinger because he had been running his finger down its length, because he liked the way it felt, liked the reminder that she was still there. She flashed before him— her gentle smile, the quiet hum of her voice. 

 

He’d known red his entire life. Red was the flame of a lighter and his first cigarette. It was Izumo’s laugh when he coughed. It was the almost red mahogany of Homra at sunset. It was the warmth of Tatara’s hand on his shoulder when he was upset. Red was to laugh, to comfort, to love. And red was to protect.

 

The fire returned to his body, but it didn’t burn anymore. And with a burst of heat he was brought back to consciousness just as quickly as he had left it. He heard a bitten off scream and it took him a moment to realize the noise had been coming from his own mouth. He felt cement beneath his knees, so he must have fallen at some point during whatever had just happened to him. Maybe he was a strain like the man with the bottle, mayb— he had to stop he didn’t have time to think about it right now.

 

His ears were still ringing as he stood up. The big guy that had been walking towards him with a knife was standing still, his face was caught between the mean sneer he had been wearing and confusion. He flicked his eyes away from the big guy and glanced at his friends. Izumo and Tatara are pretty much in the same place he last saw them except now their heads were turned toward him, their mouths slack with shock. He heard the big guy in front of him move.

 

“I’ll give you one chance to leave.” He said as he turned back to the guy.

 

The guy’s sneer returned and he held up his knife. “You must be a fucking idiot.” 

 

He felt the power coursing through him, felt the energy urge him to fight. He looked at his friends, at the blood lazily splattered across the cement. He held up his palm and there was fire in his grasp.

 

 

 

 

 

He is destruction

 

 

and he has something to protect.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So in case anyone’s interested I’m probably going to continue this with a more romantic fic. Maybe Mikoto/yata (bc I’m in rare pair hell) but maybe something else
> 
> (Also sorry if my grammar sucked in this I couldn’t make myself edit again)


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